Notes: Well, here it is. Some graphic, unremitting Duo-torture! Not for the faint of heart!!!!
by Shoori

Marking it Down to Learning + Chapter 10
Tailspin

Duo shifted his weight slightly, leaning one shoulder against the tall, grimy pole that had once, in better days, borne a "Walk/Don't Walk" sign on the top of it. These days, noone much cared if people in this part of the city made it safely across the street. The authorities probably hoped they didn't - a hit-and-run death meant paperwork, but probably not as much paperwork as any resident of this area would generate over the course of a full lifetime.

The movement caused the thick, heavy mass of his hair to tumble down his back, so Duo tossed his head, letting some of the chestnut strands fall back over his shoulder, trailing down his chest. He felt some of the wispy ends tickle his stomach, bared by the short hem of the tight black crop-topped shirt he wore.

He shifted again, wincing as a sharp pain radiated up through his body from his abused backside.

Oh, well.

Better get used to it.

A small, dark-haired man hurried by, turning his head to glance curiously at Duo. The American gifted him with his most sultry smile, and the man hesitated, then shook his head firmly to himself and hurried on.

Duo suppressed a sigh. It wasn't the best time of day for this, but...

But the hunger was growing. It had been....five hours now since he used the last of his store, and the last of the peace had disappeared. He needed more, and that fucking bastard Krantz had raised his price again...and...

Duo suppressed a groan, arranging himself even more artfully against the abandoned pole, rather than throwing himself in a sobbing heap in the gutter beneath it, like he wanted to.

How long had it been? Duo frowned, trying to remember...

Ten days, give or take a day or two possibly lost in the haze of artificial escape.

Ten days, since he'd had a home, and people he cared about, and a job, and a future...

Now, he barely had a present. Just an on-going, living nightmare.

It was a familiar nightmare. One that he'd thought he'd escaped forever, years ago.

He should have known better. This is where he'd come from, and it was where he always ended up.

He was part of the street. And as much as he hated it, it was part of him.

He'd blindly returned to this shithole city on the American continent when he'd fled from Heero that day the Japanese man had found out the truth about him. Still, separated from the event by ten days that seemed like ten years, Duo shuddered as he remembered Heero's face.

He'd been sickened. Disgusted. He'd recoiled from his very touch, and run away.

Heero Yuy, who'd been a killer since he was eight years old, couldn't even stand to touch him.

He was...dirty. He'd thought some of the things he'd done had maybe been able to wash that stain away...

But they hadn't. And when Heero saw it, he'd despised it, and despised him.

He couldn't stand the thought of seeing the same sick repugnance in the eyes of all the others, too. He really...just wouldn't be able to bear it. Just seeing it from Heero had been enough to...to make him want to die, as he hadn't wanted death since he was eight years old.

He'd felt the same desire to just fall down and never get up before. He'd felt it first when he was seven years old, and his only friend died in his arms, his last breath used to make a joke in a bittersweet effort to cheer him up. Solo had only been nine years old - give or take a year - and he was dead. Duo couldn't save him. He'd felt the same despair again barely a year later, when he had stood among the wreckage of a devastated church and stared at the charred, dead bodies of the only people who had ever told him he was worthy, and offered him a way out.

He'd wished for death, actively sought it in the years after that, but only those two times had he ever come close to praying for it.

He would ask nothing of God. He'd sworn that as a child, when he'd seen a member of his gang die of injuries sustained at the hands of some drunken, laughing Federation soldiers. Any God who'd let something like what happened to Jimmy go on in His world, wasn't worth asking for help, or mercy, or love. He had none.

But those two times, he'd begged that uncaring God to just let him cease to be, like everyone else that mattered to him.

He hadn't, of course. And after the destruction of Maxwell Church, Duo had vowed that he would never, ever ask Him for anything again.

He'd broken that vow ten days ago, when once again, crouched half-naked on the cold floor of one of the Preventers' conference rooms, he'd prayed for death.

And again, his plea had been denied, and he had to figure out what to do with his own suddenly directionless existence.

Leaving had been the only option. He just couldn't bear a re-enactment - in triplicate - of what he'd just borne with Heero.

He'd gone back briefly to the home they'd all shared, accessed Heero's computer to create a new identification, destroyed the record of his transaction, and left.

Deciding where to go had thrown him for a moment. The world was a huge place, but there was nowhere in it for him. Noone wanted him, he had nothing to do...

In the end, he'd decided to go back to the shit city that he'd done undercover work in a few days before. He'd been planning to go back there anyway, because his sudden disappearance would have compromised the mission. He might as well go there, and carry on. It was one last thing he could do for the others - ensure that the job that they were working on so hard wasn't messed up because of him.

Not that there was anywhere else he desperately wanted to go, anyway. Besides, he had a bit of an identity established there.

Tyrone. The ever-popular upwardly-mobile pimp.

That had posed a bit of a problem, since he didn't exactly have a horde of willing women ready to prostitute themselves on corners for him.

So, the first night he was back, he slammed into the bar he'd spent time in before, and proceeded to get roaring drunk. When approached by a few of the people he'd met before, he, in his "drunken indiscreetness" poured out his whole sad story - while he'd been up here, getting a feel for the territory, trying to better himself, his friend who he'd left in charge had stolen his girls and his spot. When he'd gotten back and tried to get into his own building, he'd been driven off at gunpoint. He had nothing, his whole start was gone, he'd been driven out of his territory...

Just the kind of sad luck, stupid-ass thing that would happen to a Tyrone.

That had done more to establish his identity than anything else. He'd come off before as a smalltime idiot, and this cemented that. He'd been surrounded by widely-grinning men, offering him "sympathy," which was in truth nothing but not-so-carefully-disguised mockery.

Tyrone, deep in his intoxication and morass of self-pity, of course didn't notice the difference.

They pressed him for details, grinningly consoled him, and bought him round after round of drinks. As he got drunker and drunker, he got louder, cursing the women, the friend who'd betrayed him, his mother who'd given birth to him, anyone he set his eyes on that he thought was ugly...He'd put on quite a show.

They'd loved it. It was, Duo reflected bitterly, probably the best entertainment they'd seen in years. They kept buying him more alcohol, spurring him on and on and on.

Then, one of them had offered him a line of coke.

He'd almost roused their suspicions again at that point. He'd shut up, and stared at the thin line of white powder on the bar in front of him.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" the man who'd offered it had snarled. "Never fucking seen coke before?"

But Duo hadn't been able to reply, hadn't been able to tear his gaze away.

He'd escaped, fought his way kicking and screaming away from the bondage of this powder and all it implied. He'd sworn he'd never go back.

But here it was, and here he was...and everything that had made staying away from it worthwhile was gone...

And Duo had shaken his head, grinned drunkenly at the people around him, and lowered his head, neatly sniffing the entire line of powder into one nostril with one smooth movement.

Like falling off a bike. Some things you never forget.

He'd sat there, head bowed over the bar, hating himself for a long moment...

Then, he didn't hate anything. Everything was better, brighter, bigger. He could feel his heart hammer in his chest - he was alive! Everyone at the bar was alive! Everything was amazing, wonderful...he didn't even remember Heero or the others or the despair he'd been feeling moments before... This was like he'd remembered - better than he remembered, and he couldn't imagine why he'd tried to stay away from it for so long...

When he woke up the next morning, his head in a pile of garbage in the alley behind the bar, he'd remembered. He spent a fascinating hour throwing up everything in his stomach, shivering and shuddering and again wishing he was dead.

Another hour, he spent lying near the congealing vomit and wondering why he wasn't. With all that he'd drank before he did the coke, he should have died.

But he never did. He was fucking indestructible. Whatever moronic shit he did, he was sure to wake up in the morning, ready for more.

He spent another few hours just lying there, feeling sorry for himself. Yesterday morning, he'd woken up in a warm bed, surrounded by four gorgeous men who he'd thought cared about him. This morning, his only company was a swarm of flies and a few rats who were finding the voided contents of his stomach irresistible.

Great trade.

In the end, he'd decided he needed more cocaine. He couldn't lie there anymore, facing the rats and flies and memories and pain without some help. He just needed a few more hours of escape, then he'd pick himself up and figure out what to do. Maybe he'd try to find some pimp who was looking to franchise, and set himself up as a hanger-on. Tyrone would be good for that role.

He just needed one more hit, and that would give him the strength he needed to continue this.

Two-and-a-half days later, the last of the money he'd brought with him from Sanc was gone, and he was sprawled half-way across a table in the seedy little bar he'd been glued to since his arrival, begging the emaciated, irritated dealer across the table for just one more line of cocaine.

"Forget it, Tyrone," the man snapped at him, his washed-out gray eyes steely with irritation. "I ain't doing charity cases. You don't have the money, you don't get any."

"You've got all my money, Krantz," Duo snapped. "You've raised your price four times in the past three days, and took everything I have and..."

"I'm sorry for your troubles," the dealer interrupted in a bored tone. "But business is business."

"Krantz, come on!" Duo half-shouted. "I've only been here three days! I haven't had time to get any connections yet, and..."

"No money, no product," Krantz interrupted firmly.

"Krantz, please," Duo pleaded, abruptly changing tactics. "I need to find some work, man, but I can't...not like this. I just need two lines...two lines and I'll be able to get going... Come on, man...I'll pay you double when I get some cash. Anything you want, man..."

Part of Duo was disgusted, horrified as he heard himself pleading with no thought of pride with the piece of human trash across the table from him. But most of him was just focused on his task - get some more of that powdered forgetfulness from the other man, whatever he had to promise away to get it.

Krantz stared at him through narrowed eyes. Duo put his best pleading face on - it wasn't hard - and stared at the man through widened violet eyes. Krantz stared at him assessingly for a moment, his eyes moving slowly over his face and down to his chest.

"Anything, huh?" he asked thoughtfully.

"You'll be my best friend for life," Duo swore earnestly.

Krantz snorted. "I've got enough friends, Tyrone," he said dryly. "But you can do something for me," he decided, pushing himself to his feet. "Come on," he ordered, starting across the bar, jerking his head to indicate that Duo was to follow him.

Duo started after him eagerly. Krantz threw a small bill down on the bar as he passed it, and opened a door leading into the private part of the establishment. Duo followed him in, looking around curiously. The room was tiny - there was nothing in it but a table and a few chairs.

"Close the fucking door," Krantz ordered sharply.

Duo hurried to obey, and when he turned to face the other man again, his eyes widened in surprise.

Krantz had unfastened his pants, and, as Duo watched, he unceremoniously shoved them down to his ankles. His half-hardened cock quivered slightly, growing more erect as Duo stared at it.

The dealer dropped unceremoniously down into one of his chairs, spreading his legs as wide as the fabric still gathered around his ankles would let it.

Duo stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

"Suck it," Krantz ordered briefly, waving his hand at his own genitalia.

Duo licked suddenly dry lips nervously, and Krantz' dull eyes gleamed.

"Suck it," he repeated, a more eager note in his voice. "It'll get you four lines," he offered when Duo still hesitated.

Four lines! The violet-eyed boy swayed on his feet, pulled by indecision. Mostly, he wanted to turn and run screaming out of the room. He wanted to punch Krantz. He wanted to go home.

But...there was no home to go to. He had noone, no money...and if he just did this little thing - something he'd done more times than he could remember, and frequently for less than he was being offered - he'd get four lines.

"I don't have all fucking day, Tiny," Krantz snarled, his face turning ugly with anger. He used the derisive nickname one of the comedians at the bar had dropped on him the day before. Even Duo, who'd reacted with the expected anger which nearly guaranteed that the nickname would stick, had to admit that it fit him better than ‘Tyrone.' "Take it or leave it."

Leave it. Leave four lines. And go where?

More than anything else, the thought that he had nowhere to go led Duo to drop to his knees between Krantz' spread legs. That thought hurt more than anything else, and four lines could help him forget about it all day long...

He run shivering hands along Krantz' bony inner thighs, slowly working his hands toward the other man's arousal. He moved one hand beneath the hard cock, squeezing the soft flesh there. Krantz groaned, his eyes half-closing, and Duo ran the other hand up his engorged organ, fingers closing around it, pumping slowly up and down the length as he continued to massage Krantz' balls.

"I told you to suck it, not fucking play with it," Krantz snapped, gasping as Duo squeezed him a little harder.

Duo stared at the dripping cock, bare inches from his face. He didn't want to, he didn't want to touch Krantz that way...he didn't want to go there again. Once he did, there would be no turning back, no convincing himself that he just needed a few more lines, a few more hours before he picked himself up and moved on...

If he did this, there'd just be rolling around the rock bottom, trying to find the chink that would open up and let him fall into Hell.

"Come on, you little shit," Krantz gasped.

Duo took a deep breath, and leaned forward, running his tongue along the tip of Krantz' thin cock. He nearly gagged at the sour taste of the other man's fluid, and he leaned abruptly further forward, taking the entire organ into his mouth at once to ensure that he didn't. Krantz wouldn't quickly get over an insult like that.

The dealer groaned loudly as Duo took his entire length in his mouth, and Duo felt his hands on his head, shoving his face further into the man's groin. He tried to ignore the less-than-fresh odor emanating from the thin man, and he relaxed the muscles in his throat, smoothly letting the thin organ slide past the back of tongue and rub against the back of his throat.

"Oh, yeah," Krantz muttered, his voice hoarse with ecstasy as Duo began to suck on him, swirling his tongue over the swollen flesh in his mouth as he did so. He grabbed two handfuls of Duo's hair and began to pull his head back and forth, moving his hips as he did, fucking the smaller man's mouth with increasing ferocity.

Duo moaned as control of the situation was pulled from him, and Krantz cried out more loudly as the vibrations resounded around his cock. Duo concentrated on the flesh in his mouth, keeping himself from gagging as he rammed again and again into his throat, ran his tongue over the slippery skin as Krantz' moans grew louder and louder.

"Holy fuck," he gasped, suddenly shoving Duo's face all the way down, holding it there.

Duo felt the other man tense, and knew he was close. He sucked as firmly as he could on Krantz' dick, trying to ignore that fact that he couldn't breathe with the other man's cock shoved down his throat, focused on nothing but making Krantz come.

He drew hard on the stiff flesh one more time, and that was enough. With a loud shout, Krantz orgasmed, his seed flooding Duo's throat. The smaller man had no choice but to swallow it; with Krantz' cock still rammed all the way into his throat, there was no way to expel the fluid out of his mouth. So he swallowed as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the bitter taste, trying not to choke as Krantz spasmed again, emptying himself.

Krantz leaned back in the chair with a sigh, slowly allowing his softening length to slide out of Duo's mouth.

The American sucked gently on it as it went, never-forgotten technique rising as he exercised skills not utilized in this way for years.

Duo sat back on his heels, watching the other man recover himself. Krantz opened his eyes and stared down at him, and Duo slowly, deliberately, licked his lips, tasting the other man's fluids.

[cont]